Oh, you’re the best friend that I ever had I’ve been with you such a long time You’re my sunshine and I want you to know That my feelings are true I really love you Oh, you’re my best friend
🎶
June 7th, 1942: Edward Hopper completes his best known painting, the seminal Nighthawks. When asked by a Chicago Tribute reporter about the philosophical meaning behind the diner having no clearly visible exits Hopper responded, “Shit. Fuck. I did it again. Goddamnit. Fuck. Not again. I did it again. Shit.” and slammed his hat on his leg.
how does this only have 150 notes
I fucking laughed so hard at this all artists are hilarious
Woodburning mini maps on cheapo wooden circles I found at Michaels. Maps on the front, compass rose on the back! They’re each about 2.5 inches in diameter and suuuper thin, but really fun to work with.
I love how this nerd has just been double-crossed, is facing inconvenient discorporation and the threat of paperwork! and he’s more worried about the fact that Crowley has changed/added to his name again
Also
With similar priorities, Crowley is more worried that Aziraphale might not like his name than the fact that 1) he’s on consecrated ground, 2) there’s a gun pointed at them, and 3) he knows a bomb is about to be dropped on their heads
And still in the middle of this situation, Aziraphale rushes to assure him that that’s not what he said! He’ll get used to it!
Don’t worry, my dear, I was just surprised! I hadn’t heard that you changed your name!
It started back in the old days, when everyone knew about them.
Wolves that lived in the woodlands of Europe for most of the month, who take on the form of men and women when the full moon rises. They go to the little church on the outskirts of town, where a sister brings them clothes with a smile and a shake of her head. They thank her, and hike together to the nearest small town. They show up in a little German tavern, bearing freshly killed rabbits and medicinal herbs to trade tavern keepers for a drink and a room for the night.
They arrive in groups of six or seven, with wild hair and clothes that smell of earth. Their teeth seem a bit too long and sharp. But they joke around and push one another, watching their own children as they play with those from the village. They seem jovial, carefree, and get to know the old farmers and tavern workers and harried mothers chasing their little ones.
They are treated with kindness, although everyone seems to know who they are. No need to say it though. They bring fresh food and good laughs. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, they gather together and sing, hauntingly beautiful, echoing music that drifts up to the moon.
And they don’t forget these acts of kindness.
Bandits try to attack a small farm, attempting to break in and take what little gold the family had. They still tell stories of how the shadows seems to shift, and then there were gleaming eyes and fangs, and the promise of worse to come if they returned.
A tavern maid tells of how she was being followed by drunk men, a few miles from her little cottage. A trio of she-wolves slipped out of the shadows and walked beside her soundlessly, not leaving her side until the men backed off and she was safe inside her home.
A young child with a broken leg, lost in the woods, never stops babbling about his wolf story. A large gray male, an alpha perhaps, grabbed him by the back of his shirt, and carried him to his mother’s doorstep.
When the werewolves go to the taverns and hear these stories, they simply laugh. What wild imaginations these people must have. But they let the stories spread. It is good to let everyone know that the pack has grown. This village is defended.
